


Malcolm Tucker Fragments

by Sue DeNym (baggyeyes)



Category: In The Loop - Fandom, The Thick Of It
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-02-15 06:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13025115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baggyeyes/pseuds/Sue%20DeNym
Summary: What happens when a powerful man is forced to reinvent himself? I don’t know either.These are bits of ideas I’ve had.





	1. Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the events of the series.
> 
> I wanted to look at how Malcolm would make himself semi acceptable in order to obtain employment. Where would he go? Why would he go there? Having a bit of fun with this.

# Fragments - Professor

Malcolm followed the Dean of his department quickly as he could without crashing into students of varying sizes; all wearing enormous backpacks that snagged more than once on his own messenger bag. Malcolm's lip bleeds from his biting it too hard. It would not do to get sacked on his first day cussing out the people he might be asked to teach.

"You asked for low key, Malcolm," Dean Gladwell said in what seemed like an apologetic tone. "I'd say this qualifies. Sorry." Dean Gladwell opened the door to Malcolm's office--if it could be called that.

"This looks like a storage room with a desk." Malcolm entered the tiny room, stacks of cardboard boxes along the opposite wall adds to the claustrophobic atmosphere. A desk butts up against the pile of boxes, which made Malcolm study the mountain. Would an avalanche of the boxes kill him? There was a headline he wanted to avoid. On top of the desk were only a telephone and a desk lamp.

"Yes."

"Yes?" Malcolm asked.

"It is a storage room with a desk in it. I'll have your laptop assigned to you by noon. Really, this office is just a place for you to meet students who have to meet you for whatever. I don't expect you to work here. Often." Malcolm guessed his face must have registered his dismay, because the dean uttered another apology.

"Ah, well," the once fearsome Dark Lord of 10 Downing said, "I can cuss as much as I like behind closed doors." The dean laughed, Malcolm could tell the man is worried about Malcolm's profane reputation. I need to make a fucking living, he thought.

*~*

"It's Fox News." "I said that." Malcolm leaned on the lectern trying not to be confrontational.

"No, you did not." The critical, sharp dressed male in the second row said. Malcolm could hear the other students soft murmurings and nervous bits of laughter in the room.

"I said it perfectly," Malcolm said, letting his natural phrasing come to the fore. "Listen: Fucks News."

"You know damn well you are not saying Fox News."

"Whoah! Language!" Another male student piped up.

"Shut up!"

"Hey, now, there's no need to get hostile with your fellow students, right?" This was the very first class and the very first lecture of his new job. Malcolm didn't know their names yet. But he'd already marked out his critic as one of the legendary straight C students.

"I'll try again," Malcolm said, holding back a gleeful smile. "Fucks News, Fox News, Fucks News, Fucks News. See?" The offended student rose to his feet and gathered up his unopened notebook and phone, put on his jacket.

"You are deliberately mispronouncing one of our premiere news outlets...." he said, pointing at Malcolm.

"Oh, please," the woman to his right spoke up again, "he's pronouncing it fine. You just want an excuse to leave class early. Also, I want to barf on the premiere news outlet description. Seriously."

"Since you are leaving, and this class has just started, I will need your name, mister...?" Malcolm hovered over his attendance sheet, pencil in hand. The critic stalked back, standing right in front of the lectern. It would have been impressive, but for the fact the lectern was on the stage and he was below. Malcolm stared, unblinking. At his height, he looked like he was about to cast judgement.

"What do you need my name for?" The critic asked.

"So I can mark you absent."

"Stuart Winthrop! My father contrib...."

"Got it, thanks." Malcolm turned away from the young man, adjusted the microphone and pointedly ignored the seething ball of anger in front. "Now! Where was I? Ah, yes. Manufacturing the narrative...."

*~*

'I need to make a fucking living' became his mantra for three months.

*~*

Another day, another class, Malcolm's students filed past his table in the classroom dropping off their papers. He stood back, nodding to each student, answered any questions as politely as he could all the while watching Stuart Winthrop play with his phone at the back of the class. A woman navigating her way with two canes caught Malcolm's attention.

"Hey, Mr. Tucker, can I record your lecture next week?"

"Don't put it on the Internet," he said, "then it's fine."

"Cool," she said with a smile, dropped her paper on the table (not a desk, this irritated him) and made her way out. Stuart followed close behind her, miming her gait with the canes. Once out of the room, he rushed off. Malcolm heard her mutter 'idjit' under her breath. He looked down at her paper to see her name. May Garrick. Right you are, May. He bundled the stack of papers into his satchel and went off in search of coffee.

*~*

It was embarrassing to end up teaching classes in media and communications after nastily turning down job offers from other universities, even if Sam wrote the 'acceptable' versions of his rejections. Still, his disdain for Oxford and Harvard twits is well known. Just as well he didn't end up at either place. That would have just destroyed him.

The other embarrassing bit was how he had to watch his tongue. Using the term cunt was forbidden, even if he aimed it at men primarily. Curiously, twat seemed to sail over their heads. Cum though? No, absolutely not, especially not near students. Cock was also banned, but curiously dick was not, with the exception of some of the undergrads.

In the classroom, he maintained his professionalism, keeping swearing to a sanitized few; but he had to be careful. Fuck was in a strange grey area where it was somewhat acceptable but not at the lectern. Just try to cut down on the sheer number of fucks given, that was the problem. If he said half of what he used to say at 10 Downing, he would face disciplinary action and / or find himself unemployed.

Language wasn't the only dilemma facing Malcolm. Anonymity. He does not want his old associates to know where he is, but he finds his name in the student rags and occasionally in the local papers because of his lectures on the media. Last week, CBS called to have him as an expert to comment on the latest dustups between politics and news organizations. He refused, but not before almost having a panic attack.

Still, embarrassment and paranoia aside, he does appreciate not having the weight of an entire party on his back. Could it be he actually enjoys working at the university? What would his old associates think about this? Maybe nothing. Malcolm, however, doesn't want them to find out.

*~*

Brexit happened and Malcolm found himself angry and pleased at the same time. One, the other side fucked up the country and his old party basically ran around, bumping into each other to the tune of Yakkity sax. Two, he could quite legitimately say he warned them and now they're paying the price. Then he'd get angry again, because everybody would pay the price.

Then Malcolm’s name kept cropping up in newspaper columns, in tweets and Facebook posts. And oddly enough he found his name on Tumblr in memes with different celebrities with the captions begging him to get involved. Or at least wondering what he'd have done with the latest cockup. Malcolm hated the Sean Bean memes with his name in them. In fact, he hated Tumblr. For his new job, he had to familiarize himself with the latest of social media, analyze its usage among citizens, politicians, organizations and special interest groups, grassroots movements and so forth. He looked at how Twitter played a part in mobilizing different movements and how it aided and failed its users.   
Malcolm hates Twitter. He also had to have a Facebook account because apparently he had to participate in online discussions in his faculty. Malcolm hates Facebook.

So with his name all over the place, he wondered if he ought to reply. When he did, he felt a rush of adrenaline followed by a severe anxiety. He deleted his twitter account and decided against public comments on British politics. What would happen if the party found out he'd become a U.S. citizen and voted for Barack Obama in his re-election? Malcolm really didn't want to find out.

*~*

Malcolm gave a failed grade to Stuart Winthrop in both his classes the young man registered for. Winthrop did very little essay work; what he did do was so poorly done Malcolm suspected him of having the dog write the essays.

Winthrop was just another idiot who believed he was a genius, who frequently cited his father's name and how he contributes large sums to the university. Those citations always came when he received his latest grade. Since Stuart wanted to go into public relations and become the go-to guy for in depth analysis, part of the block of courses he was taking were in the media and communications faculty. All of Malcolm's courses had been listed in the required section, so when someone did the math, someone figured out Malcolm's honest grading of Winthrop's performance would not just prevent him from getting the degree, but from continuing at the university, period. It amused Malcolm that Winthrop actually wrote go-to guy for in depth analysis in his application letter.

*~*

"Mr. Burrell? How about you tell your young friend to try a small community college, and an easier subject. He’s lost his chance here." Malcolm stood almost a foot shorter than the man he'd come to regard as the animated manikin. The height difference didn't bother him, but it was clear the other man wanted to intimidate him, so Malcolm dug in. "Mr. Winthrop's grades will not be changed. He hasn't earned anything other than that failing grade. That's the end of it."

The former senator, immaculately turned out in a dark blue suit, smiled at Malcolm and leaned in close, close enough to see the man clipped his nose hairs. Malcolm didn't move.

"I am not done with you, not even a little bit, little Scottish bastard." The man spoke so close, Malcolm could feel hot breath against his cheek.

"Ooooh, I’m terrified! Hey, I thought you were resigning? Was that an empty threat?" Malcolm asked, then turned away, "I've work to do. Goodbye." He walked away keeping his gait steady and his face neutral. He was off to his swear room.

*~*

A packed room greeted him as he entered what the locals nicknamed Toad Hall, larger than his auditorium in the university. Malcolm gazed around the room, seeing young and old, smiling and scowling faces. A mix of races and faces. He could not believe people were turning out for a lecture. Beth Corriveau, the organizer of the event shook his hand and ushered him backstage where the other lecturer waited.

"So sorry about the change in venue, Mr. Tucker. We had an unbelievable response for this series."

"Ah, well, I can work with this. No worries," Malcolm said, trying to assure himself as well as Ms. Corriveau.   
*~*

After the lecture and the Q & A that followed, the organizers, fellow lecturers and Malcolm ended up at a pub nearby. Sipping on club soda and orange juice, listening to the band cover Van Morrison while avoiding the local press, he found himself actually relaxing. It went well, the lecture. It really did. There was a pleasing lack of people clinging to ridiculous theories and a good amount of genuine debate. Not everyone agreed, but there weren't debates of the Twitter variety.

"There you are," a woman's voice said close by. He would have thought it was meant for someone else, but he recognized her voice.

"Claire Harris. How the fuck have you been?" He patted her on the shoulder, noticing she had a big grin on her face.

"You look as good as ever, Malcolm."

"Which is not at all," he said. "Funny meeting you here."

"I heard you were speaking at this event. I had to see you. Heard you got divorced." He grimaced, then made an attempt at a smile. "Twice. Divorced twice."

Claire nodded, glancing away for a moment then came in close. Malcolm backed away immediately.

"Come on," she said. "You are happy to see me."

"Yes, just not the way you'd like."

"I'm 34. I'm old enough."

"No," Malcolm said, "you're still 22 years younger than me. Jesus Christ, Claire."

"Malcolm! I can't believe it, what are you doing here?" The voice alone caused a ripple of anger flow through him. Malcolm closed his eyes and worked his best relaxed Mellow Malcolm face. He turned to face Ollie Reader, who seemed to be the same age, more or less as the last time they'd seen each other. Less dew on the cheeks, maybe.

"Oliver Fuckin' Reader, eh? Look at you. Dildo Baggins out of the Shire." Ollie's face fell into a panicked expression, the one Malcom'd seen so many times when he caught the younger man out in either a lie or a joke that went wrong, which happened a lot. But why did the twat panic when he called out to Malcolm?   
Claire spoke up first, saying, "Malcolm's one of the foremost media analysts in America. He just spoke at...;"

"Media analyst?" Ollie laughed. "He couldn’t keep up..."

"Malc, my boss really wants a word with you. Would you be so kind?" Claire nudged Malcolm away from Ollie, who once again had that damned panicked look. Malcolm's face no longer wore the mellow Malc expression. It was now his bollocking face, with a side of career destroyer.

"Your boss?"

"Yes, despite your ego, I didn't come here just to court you, as in ye olden days." Claire held onto his arm, tugging him toward a private area. "Senator Maria Delgado, this is Malcolm Tucker. Malcolm?" Claire ushered him into the small area where the senator sat, a couple of people beside her, presumably her advisers. Claire sat beside him. Surreptitiously putting her hand on his thigh. He brushed it off.

"Senator Delgado, what can I do for you?"

#####


	2. Meeting of the Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Malcolm’s first foray out as Sen. Maria Delgado’s chief advisor and he’s taken to noting it as a clusterfuck of clowns conference. 
> 
> Bored, dodging an old enemy from the University, he spots a familiar face....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fragment is a little further along. Not so much, but enough to say he said yes, and he may regret it.
> 
> Or not. Who knows?

Malcolm felt confident he would survive the first day of the conference in Connecticut, providing he made it in one piece to his room. Between the members of the party wanting to kill him and the ones who wooed him for whatever their purposes might be, Malcolm was physically exhausted and ready to strangle others with whatever was handy.

 

“Drink, Malcolm?” Some man called out over the din. Malcolm held up his glass of orange juice and waved off the offer. He grimaced when he caught the eye of Paul Burrell, turned to try to find someone, anyone he could talk to instead.

Then he saw her.

She sat in the corner, huddling with academic types, laughing nervously and cringing ever so slightly when one of her male companions touched her shoulder, then her forearm. Her smile seemed frozen on her face just then.

“Nicola Murray!” Malcolm said loud enough to jar the offending man into withdrawing his hand.

“Mal—?”

“How the hell are you? Been quite a while, eh? Years!” Malcolm sipped his orange juice. Nicola seemed stunned into silence. Of course she was. Then some part of her kicked into action.

“What are you doing here? I heard you moved to Scotland.” Her voice barely registered above the noise of the pub, but he caught it.

“No, no.” He smiled at her, then said, “I moved here. I’m a nobody here.”

“That must have bothered you,” Nicola said, a hint of hostility creeping into her voice now.

“Not at all,” he replied. Malcolm’s own tone was congenial, polite. Gesturing overto the crowd in the rented area, he said, “I’m an advisor to a senator. Not *the* advisor...”

“They let you in the country?” She said, and looked to Malcolm like she regretted saying it. She should, the truth came out a year and a half into his sentence.

Then again, nobody believed he was innocent. That didn’t bother him at all. Prison didn’t bother him. Peter Mannion swanning off into a revamped DoSac, with better funding bothered Malcolm. He leveled his gaze at Nicola.

“I never released those files, Nicola.”

“Ah, Ms. Murray, perhaps we can...?” The grabby man started while the others looked for direction.

Before the little group could break up, Malcolm nodded to Nicola. “Nice to see you. Have a good evening.”

Walking away, he could hear the conversation at her table start up again. This time, her pleasant voice didn’t sound as forced as her laughter.

###

Burrell cornered Malcolm in a quiet part of the pub, right into a corner. Malcolm hated several things about this. Burrell is taller, which made him look up at the ex-senator, and Burrell was clearly aiming to discomfit Malcolm by moving in so close.

“You have absolutely no fucking nose hair.” He said. Burrell smiled down at him.

“I do enjoy your wit.”

“I don’t enjoy your company nor your smell, so kindly fuck off.”

“I’m actually your only ally here, Mal. You have no idea how many are after you. Nobody wants you as advisor to Senator Delgado.”

“Except Senator Delgado. Jesus Christ, is this party going to shoot itself in the foot when they have the best candidate? It can’t just be me they object to.” Malcolm tried to manoeuvre past Burrell but ended up tipping against the man. He clenched his fists, the desire to break Burrell’s nose so strong at that moment.

“Where’s Malcolm?” A male voice called out. It sounded like Tom, the guy who probably would have been the top advisor if Delgado hadn’t insisted on hiring Malcolm.

He put his hand up and waved as Burrell stepped aside.

“Twat,” Malcolm said in a low voice to Burrell.

“Something going on?” Tom asked.

“The usual,” he replied. “The fucking usual.”

 

###

"Malcolm!"

He was on his way to find a seat when Nicola called out to him. He turned so he could get a good look at her face. This was her 'I've got something to say' face, which on other people could be called their wanker face, their snivelling face and on him, would be called his bollocking face.

"Mrs. Murray. How're you? Where's your mates?" he smiled as pleasantly as he could manage.

"First of all, they are not my mates, they are potential employers and collegues. Second, how dare you act like you haven't done anything wrong?” Nicola Murray stood between Malcolm and a small gaggle of reporters. Their eyes fixed on Malcolm’s face for his reaction.

“Can we go somewhere quiet?” he asked. Nicola’s eyes widened and he swore she spit on him when she spoke.

“No, we bloody will not! You fucking destroyed my career! You happily shot down everything I worked for—!”

“Hang on darling,” he began, forgetting the reporters completely. “I didn’t fucking destroy you. You destroyed you. You did it..”

“Oh, Malcolm, I can’t believe...”

“...by talking about cakes that bake themselves, then eat themselves or whatever fucked up idea that was. You destroyed your own career by coming up with useless shit. Useless fucking shit like Quiet Fucking Bat People. Remember that? I didn’t write that. I didn’t come up with that. But you certainly made me announce it to the party, didn’t you?”

“So that’s why you staged the coup, is it?I embarrassed you?” Nicola laughed. But it was a bitter laugh.

“Oh, no, no, no. You decided learning how to fucking walk was more important than listening to citizens coming to us, begging us to argue on their behalf. You...”

“Is this about Mr...the nurse? You’re still on about him?”

“Tickel!” Malcolm’s voice rose enough the usual pub noise died down. Shit. Fuck it, I’ve started.

“His name was Tickel. He suffered from depression, did you forget that too? And no, this isn’t all about him. There were other times. Each time you’d find a reason not to bring it up in Parliament. Oh, my favourite, abso-fucking-favourite has to be, “they’ll expect me to oppose them, but I’m going to surprise them by not opposing them.” Jesus Christ.”He paused, turned like he was about to walk away, but swivelled back to Nicola.

“All you had to do, was just that one fucking time, stand up for someone who asked for your help. That’s why people turn to the opposition, to bring up their concerns to the House. But you, YOU. You couldn’t be fucking bothered.”

Malcolm’s voice had dropped lower as he went on. Nicola stood silently, her chin in the air. He knew that was her defiant stance. She had her glummy mummy face on.

“Don’t you dare blame me for your downfall. I tried, yeah? I tried to help you. Every fucking bit of good advice I gave you, you deliberately tossed aside.”

“What good advice?! Really, Malcolm, what good advice? Right from the start, you sabotaged me. From the Liam Bentley sign...”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“...my daughter going to comprehensive, then that bloody day where I got in then out of a bloody car. You could have given me good advice there. No, just random abuse and...”

“That bloody day. You mean the one where you wanted to tell the press about the self baking, self eating cake? Which, by the way, sounds fucking disgusting.”

He stepped past her to the bar and asked for another orange juice, then turned back to face Nicola.

“You know what that whole idea actually was? A fucking poster campaign. That’s it. You were announcing your intent to do a poster campaign, without knowing it was a poster campaign. I tried to save you, too. Made Blinky Ben Swain do it. But no, Mad Mary, saint of regurgitated cakes, just had to do her own fucking swan dive. Brilliant. Well done.” Malcolm turned to pay for his orange juice. Looking back at Nicola, she seemed to be stricken.

“Malcolm...”

“No, I’m done.” He took a good gulp of orange juice, let the cool liquid linger before swallowing. Then he drank the entire glass.

“Bye.” Malcolm walked away, wishing that had gone differently.

 

“Shit.” The first thing Nicola said after Malcolm left. She’d seen someone reach over and slip something into his orange juice while he raged on about that fucking cake. At first she thought it’d be just what he deserved, but then she remembered the overly familiar man looming over him, and how Malcolm seemed uncomfortable. She thought again how he might deserve it, then felt a pang of guilt for thinking that.

“Shit.” What if it wasn’t say, one of those date drugs but something that could kill?

“Oh, shit, oh, shit! Shit!”

 

When Nicola found Malcolm, he was holding onto the corner of a wall near the lifts. The man she’d seen before, at least she guessed it was the same man, knelt talking to him.

“Come on, you’re not in any condition to make it up there on your own.” The man’s voice sounded silky smooth. As the gentleman spoke right into Malcolm’s ear, Nicola was sure her former advisor would have punched him if he were able.

“Ffff fuck offff.” Malcolm stared up at the man, his eyes watering, his eyelids fluttering.

“Malcolm!” Nicola said as loud as she could manage. “Oh, you look awful. Listen, I can take care of him.” Malcolm looked up at her with the expression of a frightened child and it sparked something in her.

“I’m going to take him upstairs,” the man said.

“I will take care of him.” Nicola said this as she would to her children or to James, her husband when she decided the discussion was at an end. She fixed the man with the same steely glare as well.

It took the man a couple beats before he seemed to decide maybe an argument with her wasn’t a good idea. Nicola watched him walk then run away.

“Shit.” He’s gone to get help. She looked at the lifts. If she was going to actually help, she would have to use the lifts.

“Nic—?”

“Shut up and do your best to stay upright. And for God’s sake, don’t say anything until you’re in your room.”

 

They weren’t in his room. They ended up in her room because she saw the men headed for them as the wretched doors closed. Panicking and pressing the floor numbers she hit her floor by mistake, even though Malcolm told her his room number three times.

Safe in her room, Nicola stood with her forehead against the door counting to twenty. It use to be ten that calmed her down. The lift made her heart and head pound. Why couldn’t this day be over?

Nicola turned to find Malcolm trying to take off his shirt, but forgetting to unbutton the neck and the cuffs. The shirt was over his head and trapped his hands and he was starting to panic a little. Nicola moved in, resisting the urge to call him mental for panicking over his shirt. She got him free and he looked around like he expected someone else to be there. He actually looked frightened. Nicola immediately felt ashamed.

“Where is he?” Malcolm asked.

“Who?”

“Jaime.”

“No Jaime here. I think you were drugged, Malcolm.” Nicola searched his face for some kind of sign he was better or worse. He just looked like he considered the situation and its possible solutions.

“Oh.” He said. Then staggered to the bed and flopped down across it. She rushed over to check him. He was either asleep or unconscious, but definitely alive.

“My God, you’re skinny.”

For the next hour, Nicola Murray, former Secretary of State for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship, former leader of her party, Malcolm Tucker’s former boss, pushed and pulled, rolled and then pushed and pulled again to get Malcolm in the bed properly. After all that, she removed his boots. She was not going to sleep on the floor. As long as he stayed where he was, she stayed where she was, both would survive the night.

It was only as sleep took her that Nicola realized she should have called the police.

 

Wide awake for hours, Nicola had remained in bed, the necessary trip to the loo notwithstanding. Her mind fussed over what to say to him when he woke up, and her imagined dialogue usually degenerated into an argument. Truth was, this happened with every imagined conversation she had with Malcolm Tucker. In her mind, Nicola always knew what to say, countered everything he said perfectly and won every single argument. Almost like Nicola Murray was practicing for her big moment, when she finally confronted Mr. Fucking Tucker and taught him a lesson.

So when she marched up to him to deliver her blistering message to him for destroying her career and life, of course it didn’t go the way she wanted it to. Then someone drugged him.

Beside Nicola, the man in question shifted a bit, sighed and went silent again. She glanced over at him, resenting the apparent blissful sleep he was getting, and considered kicking him.

Malcolm’s back to her, Nicola stared at various markings on his back. He had the usual kind of things one finds on the back of a man his age, such as childhood scars - what looked suspiciously like a human bite scar, another few looked like something like chicken pox scars. God! Nicola hated that when she got sick and had a neck full of blisters.

Malcolm also looked bony, which she resented in another way.

Why is he so bloody—!

Malcolm sat up, his back to her. Moving his shoulders and neck, Nicola heard pops and cracks. He sat forward and rubbed his face, muttering inaudibly before standing up and stretching.

Nicola stayed absolutely still, not quite sure when she should say something.

As Malcolm started to take off his trousers and underwear, he turned around.

“Jesus Christ, Nicola!”

He was flat against the wall, pulling his waistband back up, eyes wild. What struck her though, was his hair. In all the years she’d known him, Malcolm had never had hair long enough to get caught in the wind, let alone mussed up drunken rock star style. Yet there he was, wild hair, gray, silver and black.

“What the fuck...”

“Nothing happened, Malcolm. I found you fending off some man who was offering to take you to your room. So I braved the lift for you.” Nicola got out of bed, pulled on her robe as quickly as possible.

“That’s right, I braved the fucking lift to help you.” She stood with her arms crossed, ready for whatever insult he’d hurl her way.

He spoke quietly enough she almost didn’t hear him.

“Thank you.”

“What?”

“I said, thank you. I sort of remember him. Tall, cookie cutter nice guy fucker.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t want to go anywhere with him.” Nicola watched him move around the room.

After he put on his shirt, Malcolm sat down to put on his boots. But he stopped, just stared blankly at the floor.

“You were drugged,” Nicola said. “I suppose I should call the police? I was just so knackered after I got you in here, and made sure you were ok. And the ride up in the lift was terrifying. Then those men coming after us...”

“What men?” Malcolm brought his gaze up to her face, so now Nicola felt like a deer in the headlights. Or what she supposed the proverbial deer would look like in front of the proverbial headlights.

“Men in suits? They looked quite a bit like the men you spoke to in the banquet room. They had tags, yes! They had tags.”

“But you didn’t see the names?”

“Sorry, no.” Nicola found herself grinning. She turned and flicked her own mouth.

“Why did you do that?” Malcolm asked, his voice rough. “I fucking know you’re nervous, Nicola. And no, don’t call the police. I have to deal with this myself.”

“But what were they going to do with you? Wait! I remember one name. You asked if Jaime was here. Is ...”

“No, no one here has that name.” Malcolm went back to staring at the floor.

“Well, who is he? Or she? You definitely seemed worried about this Jaime.” Nicola moved closer to him, unsure if the drugs have left his system.

“He. Around the time before the verdict in my case, he came by my house. Held a grudge ever since I fired him for insubordination. That time Tom took over? That’s when I fired the wee arse.” Malcolm took a deep breath and continued, “Anyway, the bastard came round my house, and beat the shit out of me. I fought back, but he went for my head.”

“So that’s what happened. Why didn’t you charge him, this Jaime person? She knelt beside the chair now, peering into his face. Malcolm didn’t face her, just stared at the carpet.

“Darling, I was about to go to prison, everybody fucking knew how it would go. I wasn’t going to go to the police with this then go to prison. My luck, they’d have put that little fucker in with me.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“But what about these men, what were they going to do to you?” Nicola managed to catch his eyes. So much passed through his face, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking or feeling.

“I don’t know. Set me up with a hooker? With a rent boy? Worse?”

 

Following Malcolm as best she could - Robin was right, he does take long strides - Nicola struggled to remember what the men from last night looked like. Malcolm told her not to try, that she might muddy her memory, but what study said that? Really, he came up with silly reasons.

“Tom!” Malcolm voice boomed out. Nicola cringed despite herself. Different Tom. This Tom stood tall, had a nice smile and actually held his hand out to greet her.

“Tom, Nicola, Nicola, Tom. Right!” Has there been any whispers about last night?”

“None,” Tom said. “Why?”

“Keep it under your perfectly coiffed do,” Malcolm leaned closer to Tom, “I was drugged. Nicola saved me from fuck knows what.”

“Maria’s going to...”

“Don’t fucking tell her! She’s got enough on her hands. Just...it’s my deal. If you hear anything...”

Malcolm stopped smiled and waved at someone then dropped his voice again. “You hear anything, tell me so I can find the fucker and make final arrangements, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ok.” Tom stared a moment at Nicola and she wanted to run and hide.

“Don’t worry about Mrs. Murray, okay? She’s good.” Malcom patted her on the shoulder.

“Not Mrs. it’s Ms. Murray.” Nicola smiled and laughed nervously, “Tom...”

“Tom has to get going,” Malcolm said, a hint of impatience in his voice.

Tom went on his way, as Malcolm turned to Nicola eyes wide in surprise.

“You dumped the useless third nipple? Well done.”

“Mutual agreement.” Nicola said, feeling her lips tighten into a grimace. She worked to soften her face.

“Glummy mummy! Glummy mummy’s coming back! And you looked so relaxed before,” Malcolm said.

“Did I?” Nicola asked, surprised.

“No.”


End file.
